Page 28 of Washed Up
At least he doesn’t look at me as if I’m a wounded bird. Rather, his tongue skims his teeth as his hot gaze wanders over my body, and he makes appreciative noises in the back of his throat.
“Well, hello there, beautiful. Would you like to get into your perch?”
I’d like to imagine I do so gracefully.
Reid closes in once I’m seated. His fingers skim up my arms, then down to my breasts. He bows his head and suckles my nipples. His hair tickles my skin. I breathe in his scent, salt, and skin, with a touch of peppery shower gel.
“Hm, remember me, girls?”
They obligingly pucker in response to this greeting. His attention lowers to my hips. One palm gets splayed across my tummy. Then, his fingers are in his mouth and he’s wetting them, pushing through my curls to the true target of his interest.
“Touch me,” he breathes into my ear. He leaves me holding the camera one-handed as he guides the other to his cock. He’s semi-hard but fills out quickly as my palm encompasses him. I let out a groan, as I move instinctively. He’s not the first man I’ve masturbated. He is the first I’ve touched while recording the process.
I keep going, stroking him, skin on skin, while he does the same to me. “Like this?” he asks. “Or better, like this?”
Anyway, and every way. His touch is like lightning. It sends volt after volt of crackling energy through my synapses. I never want him to stop. I know I’m going to come soon if he doesn’t let up a little.
“I want to come while you’re inside me,” I say.
Hazel eyes crinkle at the corners. “Inside you right here.” His index finger circles my entrance, then dips into the well of moisture gathered there.
“Yes, please.”
“Sweet Ariel, I can’t deny you anything.”
He’s a charmer, no mistaking. We wriggle and shift. Soft laugh, and moan. Reid lifts my legs. I hook them around his back and return to watching him through the viewfinder. There’s so much I don’t want to miss.
Reid strokes me as the swing rocks gently back and forth. He bends and unfolds one of my legs so that he can run his hands along its length, then kiss the same pathway. His breath tickles in the moments before he tastes me. His tongue is a little rough, but he knows what he’s doing. It gets harder and harder to keep a part of myself detached and focused on making a record of our actions. “You’re still teasing me.”
“Just making certain I’m not short-changing you.”
It’s all unhurried. I lick my lips while I watch him roll on a condom. “Just to be safe. I know you’ve an implant.”
How the fuck does he know that?
“Left arm.” He nods in that direction. “There’s a bump where it is.”
Okay, no one has ever noticed it before. Reid Rushmore is more observant than most. He goes back to rubbing my swollen clit, making me wetter and increasingly breathless. I’m skating closer and closer. Body tensing.
I record the very moment he notches his cock inside of me. I don’t want to stop there, but the sensation is too much. The camera slips from my grasp, and instead of reaching for it, I reach for him. I kiss his chest, breathe in the mixed scent of our arousal. Reid pulls the swing towards him, and I slide onto him. He holds us there joined. Kisses every part of me he can reach. My skin prickles and comes alive. I’m waiting for the swoopingsensation that comes as his cock slides out. I want it so badly, I start arching my back. It’s a strain for him too. He holds on. Prolongs our joint agony, but eventually, he gives in to the sensations we both crave.
Reid fucks me long and well, and far into the night.
We rut and we wriggle.
Each time I come I’m flooded with warmth and grow a little more infatuated with him. His teeth find my shoulder when he finishes for the second time. “I’m already half in love with you, mermaid girl,” he sighs.
He knows every inch of me by the time we retire to my room and the comfort of the bed. I know every inch of him, too. The divot from an accident he sustained aged twelve on his left butt cheek. The long wings of his shoulder blades and the ladder of his spine. Even the triangle of golden-brown freckles that occupy that space between his balls and his tightly furled pucker.
When we wake, Wynter is back. He stands in the half open doorway looking at us, limbs entangled and poking out from beneath the equally tangled and rumpled duvet.
Reid stirs and stretches an arm out towards him. “Space for one more.”
“I need some kip.”
“Space for one more,” Reid repeats.
I expect Wynter to stalk off. It shocks me into wakefulness when he instead steps into the room. He undresses unhurriedly, down to black slip briefs, and climbs into bed on the far side of Reid, who slings an arm around his friend.
